TO AND ABOUT HONORA.
"THE LEYS, _Thursday._
"MY OWN DEAR HONOR,—Just a week since I came,—and it seems like three
months at least!
"I would not write sooner. It seemed better to wait, and not to give
you mere first impressions too hastily. Mother promised to let you
hear of my safe arrival. Lady Halcot has given me leave to write home
regularly once a week; and I suppose this is as much as I could expect
under the circumstances. Nothing has been said yet about correspondence
with friends. I do not know whether I am to expect restrictions there.
"My new residence—I cannot quite call it 'home' yet—is very beautiful,
Honor. How you would delight in the garden and conservatories!
Sometimes the whole seems like a dream to me, and I find myself
expecting to wake up in the dear old London house, and I do not quite
know how to bear the pain of separation,—and then again it comes over
me with a rush of joy that things will be so different there now. I
had a letter from my mother this morning, and she says they feel quite
rich. Of course my father has his full income until Midsummer; and the
first quarter from Lady Halcot's settlement had just come in; and also,
dear father had heard of something for himself after Midsummer, which
will bring in enough to be a real additional help, though very far from
enough for us all if I had stayed at home. I know all this is safe with
you.
"So I have a great deal to make me happy and thankful, have I not?
"Lady Halcot is very good and kind. She is not loving in manner, like
my own dear mother, and of course I miss that. But she has lavished
gifts upon me,—everything that I can possibly want in the way of
clothes and knickknacks. It seems quite wrong that so much should be
spent on my single self. One of my new hats had a ticket hanging to it,
and I saw £3. 10s. marked. I felt positively guilty, remembering all
the home needs. Yet I dare not protest.
"Sometimes I think Lady Halcot is already growing fond of me. People
show fondness so differently. She never kisses me except once coldly
night and morning, and never puts on an affectionate manner; yet she
shows constant interest in everything that I do, and overlooks me
incessantly. I have to get up exactly at half-past seven, and to be in
bed precisely at half-past ten; and I am made to read one hour, to work
another hour, to walk a third hour, as she thinks desirable; while, if
I am half an hour absent, without being sent away, she always inquires
what I have been doing. She even chooses books for me, and prescribes
the order in which I am to read them.
"This sort of supervision seems of course a little strange, after my
London independence. The eldest of ten naturally learns to stand alone
early; and I seem now to have gone suddenly into leading-strings. But I
know it is all meant kindly; and I shall grow used to it in time.
"I have not seen much of Riversmouth yet. Lady Halcot sends me into
the grounds for an hour every morning; but I do not go beyond them.
She does not like me to walk about alone; and I don't think she quite
understands my love for the shore, or the delight that a wander
there has for a Londoner. In the afternoon we either go out in the
pony-carriage, or else we have a state-drive in the large carriage,
paying calls, and sometimes seeing very pretty gardens and pleasant
people. She introduces me everywhere as 'my young cousin,' occasionally
adding, 'and adopted child;' so I am most kindly received.
"I must confess I do sometimes long to jump out of our stately chariot,
and to have a good scramble up the banks and over the fields! But I try
not to give way to such feelings. Yesterday we passed a lovely bank of
wildflowers, and I could not help exclaiming. Lady Halcot asked if I
wanted some, and she actually had the carriage stopped, and made the
footman gather me a handful. It was nice to have them, only of course
not quite like getting them for myself.
"Is it not strange that I should have so often thirsted for a life of
more freedom, with plenty of room, and plenty of air, and plenty of
money, and absence of noise and crowd, and not to feel always obliged
to toil on, whatever my mood might be; and now these have all come to
me, and yet they are not freedom! My London life was a life of greater
liberty.
"You would not let me say, Honor dear, that God had taken me at my
word, and sent me my will in displeasure. But I do think I must be
meant to learn a lesson from all this,—a lesson against the sin of
murmuring. I have been looking out in my Bible, the last morning
or two, all about the different murmurings and complainings of the
children of Israel; and it does seem to me as if there was almost no
sin of which they were so often guilty, or which had to be more sharply
punished. One is apt to think that grumbling at little things in
every-day life is a small matter, but I am sure it is not a small sin
in God's sight. I am praying hard now for the great gift of a contented
spirit, and you must pray for it with me, Honor,—for myself, I mean.
I know now that God can see exactly what is best for me, and I do not
want to have any longer even a wish to choose for myself. He can tell
exactly the discipline that I need; and I would not, if I could, lift a
finger to keep it off. I have found out more this week of my own pride
and wilfulness than I ever found out before, and yet I have been so
happy the last two or three days, in the thought that He is training
me, and that He loves me too well to let any foolish shrinking on my
part hinder the training. And I want not even to shrink; I want to have
those things sent which will draw me nearer and nearer to Christ.
"Forgive all this talk about self. It is only what I would say if we
were together. I cannot write so freely to anybody else. Mother would
be distressed, fancying me unhappy; but you will understand exactly
what I mean.
"I had a real treat this morning. Lady Halcot took me in the
pony-carriage to the Phillips' cottage, to see little Arthur. He is
looking quite rosy and well, and his sister is such a nice respectable
girl, very lame, but a capital needlewoman. Lady Halcot has promised
to give her some work, and she has given me leave to pay for little
Arthur's schooling. I am to have 'such' an allowance for my clothes,—it
quite frightens me.
"I should have liked to kiss the dear little boy as he came creeping
up close to me,—his sister saying, 'Artie's always talking about you,
miss, and how you saved his life,'—but I did not quite dare, with Lady
Halcot sitting there. She is kind to the poor on her estate, but she
never unbends in manner.
"I must not forget to tell you that I have received a medal from the
Humane Society—partly Mr. Fosbrook's doing, I suspect. He came in
yesterday, and was very pleasant; but he said something to Lady Halcot
about my not looking strong, and directly he was gone, she desired me
to go to my room and lie down for an hour. So you see your Gwen is well
taken care of.
"Not a word so far about Miss Withers, the companion. The truth is,
I am rather at a loss what to say. She is a sort of neutral-tinted
individual, with an air of humble politeness, and an apparent
forgetfulness of her own existence, which, if genuine, would be—perhaps
I ought to be able to say are—positively beautiful. Yet I do not like
her; I cannot tell why. She seems invaluable to Lady Halcot. Sometimes
I wish she would not be quite so invaluable. I should so like to be
useful to Lady Halcot, but not a loophole is left to me. Watch as
may for opportunities, Miss Withers invariably glides in between and
does what is needed. I have an instinct—perhaps only a fancy—that
she dislikes me, notwithstanding her cordiality. Her nephew is Lady
Halcot's secretary—about as fit for the post as our little Bob. I do
pity him.
"Only think; I have not touched my painting all this week. The
packing-case is not even opened. An odd sort of laziness has taken
possession of me, and steady work seems impossible. I must try to get
out of this.
"I am writing to you in my own boudoir, a lovely little room, fit for a
princess. You would not know your Gwen here! Yet I do not feel that I
myself am different. It is only the surroundings that are changed,—the
same stone in a fresh setting. Will it be so when we get to heaven,
Honor? Our very same selves, actually and consciously, only with all
the evil that is in us utterly gone, and with radiant new surroundings!
What a beautiful thought, if one follows it out!"
A slight rustle made Gwendoline raise her eyes, and she involuntarily
stood up. Lady Halcot had entered the room unperceived.
"You seem very much absorbed," her ladyship said.
"I am only writing to a friend," Gwendoline answered, not without an
inward tremor. Would Lady Halcot demand to see the letter? She wished
she had not written so freely.
"To what friend?"
"Honora Dewhurst."
Lady Halcot waited for more, her little crooked figure in black velvet
standing motionless in the middle of the room, and her black eyes
requesting information.
"She was a fellow-student of mine in London,—an artist," said
Gwendoline. "We worked side by side very often. I have known her for
years, and she is my dearest friend. She is an orphan, and quite alone
in the world, and she is—oh, so good! I never knew anybody like Honor!"
The black eyes did not stir from Gwendoline's face. Lady Halcot was
never guilty of staring; but her power of gazing steadily, without a
blink, was remarkable.
"A young person?" she asked, with a stress on the adjective.
"Honor is four or five years older than I am."
"A lady in mind and manners?"
"Oh, quite—quite!" said Gwendoline.
"And in family?"
"I believe her father was of a very good family. I never asked her much
about that. And her mother too—only one of her mother's sisters married
a tradesman." Gwendoline hesitated a moment, flushing brightly. "I
ought to tell you that the aunt lives in Riversmouth, with her husband.
Honor and I came down together to see them."
Lady Halcot's face showed a mixture of gratification and
dissatisfaction. "You are thoroughly honest, I see," she said. "Then
you are acquainted with these people?"
"With Mr. and Mrs. Widrington,—yes."
"The acquaintance cannot be continued, in your present position."
"Honor told me that it would be so," said Gwendoline, in a low voice.
"But may I—please may I write to Honor? She is my oldest and dearest
friend."
The moment's pause was terrible to Gwendoline. Then the answer
came: "Yes—in moderation; if I find no cause later to rescind this
permission."
"Thank you," was all Gwendoline could say. Her limbs shook with
agitation.
"Had you acted towards me with less transparent openness, my decision
might have been different. As it is, you may write occasionally—once a
month or so."
Gwendoline murmured her thanks anew.
"I see you intend to conform to my wishes in these matters," Lady
Halcot continued, in her calmly impassive manner. "This is precisely
what I have desired, and I am extremely pleased with you, Gwendoline.
You are a very pretty girl; your manners are thoroughly ladylike; and
you have thus far shown yourself entirely submissive. Continue as you
have begun, and I shall have no fault to find with you."
Gwendoline broke out suddenly with unpremeditated words. "I can't thank
you for all your kindness, Lady Halcot. I wish I could."
"There is no need. Gratitude is best shown in the conduct."
"If only I could feel that I was of any use!" half-whispered
Gwendoline. "If I could be any help or comfort to you! My mother did so
wish—"
Lady Halcot's glance was checking. "It is a pleasure to me to have you
in the house," she said. "That should be sufficient. I do not forbid
you to speak of your mother, Gwendoline, but the less frequently you do
so the better."
Gwendoline's cheeks were crimson, and her eyes overflowed. "If you did
but know my mother now!" she said almost passionately. "Such a mother
she has been to us! Oh, Lady Halcot, if you could but forgive—could but
feel as you once did!"
"The two things are not synonymous," said Lady Halcot. "I have long
forgiven Eleanor Halcombe; but I certainly do not feel towards her as I
once did. That is enough on the subject. I wish you now to show me your
paintings. You have brought some specimens, I hope, as I desired you to
do."
"The packing-case is down-stairs. It has not been opened yet,"
Gwendoline said huskily.
"We will send for it. Ring the bell."
Gwendoline obeyed, and before long she was kneeling on the ground,
tenderly lifting out one after another of her later studies and
sketches. Memories of the life which lay behind thronged upon her
as she did so, but she would not be again overcome. Lady Halcot
stood near, with an air of keen interest, receiving each in turn
from Gwendoline's hands, placing it in a good position, examining,
criticising minor points, but as yet giving no general verdict.
Gwendoline knew that the verdict would be one of weight when it did
come. Lady Halcot was a connoisseur of no common order.
"These are all I have brought," Gwendoline said at length.
Lady Halcot stood gazing still. "That head is very carefully executed,"
she said. "You are painstaking, I perceive. But there is not a second
study of the kind. You seem to have done most in the way of landscapes."
"I never thought I had any gift for heads."
Lady Halcot went over the whole set again, plainly making up her mind
as to their merits, with an air of quiet competence.
"Stay,—I see one more in the bottom of the box. You have overlooked it.
Yes, that is the best of all,—by far the best. There is a vigour of
outline here, and a force of colouring, which I miss in the rest. It
will be worth your while to continue painting as something more than a
mere pastime. I began to have doubts on that head."
Gwendoline hardly knew whether pleasure or pain weighed heaviest. She
said simply, "That is not mine. It is Honora Dewhurst's."
"Indeed. She has unusual artistic power."
"I always knew her pictures to be better than mine," said Gwendoline.
"It is not merely a question of their being 'better.' That, in a sense,
one would expect, from her age and her longer practice. This picture
bears the stamp of genius—not merely of talent. Your sketches are very
pretty, and they do great credit to your perseverance. Painting will be
a pleasant occupation and a graceful accomplishment, in your present
sphere. But you could never have made your livelihood as an artist."
Possibly Lady Halcot found more satisfaction in this thought than
Gwendoline did.
"And you think Honora may?" asked Gwendoline.
"I do not say she will ever find herself in the first rank of living
artists; time alone can decide that. But undoubtedly she has a gift
worth cultivating to the utmost of her opportunity, a gift by which she
may make her way. Are you disappointed, Gwendoline?"
Gwendoline was looking strangely pale, but she tried to smile. "I ought
to be thankful it is Honor, and not I—"
"Why?"
"She needs it most—now."
"True. But do not misunderstand me. I have no wish to discourage your
efforts. You have a marked talent for painting, and it is a talent
which ought not to be neglected. All I say is that I do not find tokens
of original genius."
"Not in mine, but in Honor's?"
"Yes, there is that difference," said Lady Halcot, looking rather
curiously at Gwendoline. "Would it be a pleasure to you to request Miss
Dewhurst to paint me a picture to order? I am willing to give twenty
guineas for it."
"Oh, thank you! How kind!"
"You may keep your letter open till to-morrow, and I will consider what
subject I should prefer. I think—" Lady Halcot paused, and then asked
again, "Are you very much disappointed?"
"I ought not to be."
"Why 'ought not'?"
"It was conceited of me to expect anything else. And nobody ought to
wish for genius, where God has not given it."
"I am not so sure about that," Lady Halcot said. "I am sorry for your
disappointment, Gwendoline; but you are not one to wish for other than
an honest opinion, even if I were capable of giving any other."
"Oh no, indeed!" said Gwendoline. "It is just what I have wished to
have, for years past, from someone who could really know."
"Have your paintings never been seen by a competent critic?"
Gwendoline moved her head negatively. "I have had a great many kind
things said to me, by fellow-students and others," she said. "I never
knew how much it was all worth."
"Miss Dewhurst's estimate ought to be worth something."
"She is my friend," said Gwendoline simply; and Lady Halcot's face
relaxed into a smile.
"You show some knowledge of human nature," she said. "But that biassing
of one's opinion by one's affection is to me a thing inconceivable—for
myself! My judgment would be altogether the same in the case of friend
or foe. It is a matter apart from personal feeling."
"With you, but not with most people," Gwendoline said.
"I believe you are right. Nearly half-past four. We will go down and
have our tea."
"In a few minutes—if you please—"
"Very well—you will follow me when you are ready."
Lady Halcot disappeared, and Gwendoline went slowly into her bedroom,
feeling strangely weary, as if all life and power had died out of
her. She rejoiced for Honor, and she did not for a moment question
the justness of the sentence passed; but this only made pain the more
acute. It was the fading of many bright girlish dreams. Gwendoline
knelt beside the bed, and hid her face, a cloud of deep depression
weighing her down. She was rather given to such moods, but she had
seldom known a darker hour than this.
Everything seemed going from her,—all the dear old life, with its
trials and hopes, its toils and aspirations. What had she now to
live for? Was it to be with her thenceforward a mere dead level of
self-satisfying, a mere easy existence; without work for others;
without high hopes for the future; without consolation, except in the
knowledge that by her presence at the Leys she was indirectly keeping
the home-circle in comfort?
"What had she now to live for?" Simply, as before, to carry out the
will of her God in whatever sphere she might be placed.
"Without high hopes for the future!" But what of the glorious future
beyond and above the present life, where all her highest hopes were
centred? That remained untouched.
These thoughts came first, followed by a recollection of her late
struggles for submission. Here was a new test. If this were the will
of God, should it not be her will also? Who was Gwendoline Halcombe,
to chafe and fret because He had not seen fit to endow her with great
gifts? Whatever her gifts might be, she had but to lay them at her
Master's feet. Whatever her appointed manner of life, she had still to
honour His Name. What need for other and more selfish aims?
How time passed Gwendoline did not know. She forgot all about Lady
Halcot and afternoon tea. Victory came to her slowly, and calmness
with it; but the battle, following upon sharp disappointment, had
been exhausting. A sense of nerveless languor seemed to enchain her
faculties, and she knelt on still, from sheer lack of energy to rise.
Kneeling thus, she fell heavily asleep.
A hand on her shoulder broke into a dream of old days. Gwendoline
sprang up from her crouching posture with a startled exclamation of
"Mother!"
"Gwendoline!" said Lady Halcot in astonishment.
Gwendoline was for a moment utterly dazed and colourless. She stood
silently, gathering up her scattered recollections.
"What made you go to sleep?" inquired Lady Halcot.
"Was I asleep?" Gwendoline asked in reply.
"Yes. Sit down there," said Lady Halcot, motioning her to the sofa.
"Miss Withers knocked at your door and could obtain no answer."
"I am sorry you have had trouble," murmured Gwendoline, not yet quite
coherently.
Lady Halcot stood looking, with her manner of unimpassioned interest.
"I'll come down now. Please do not let me keep you," said Gwendoline
anxiously.
"No. Stay where you are. Your tea shall be brought to you."
Lady Halcot moved away, and Gwendoline was glad to rest her head among
the cushions.
By the time Spurrell and a little tray appeared, she had regained her
collectedness; but, to Gwendoline's amazement, Spurrell did not appear
alone. Lady Halcot swept in before her.
"Do not talk. Take the tea," said Lady Halcot, when Gwendoline would
have protested. "You may leave the tray, Spurrell."
And presently, as Gwendoline set down the emptied cup, she asked, with
some abruptness, "Do you say your prayers in the middle of the day?"
Gwendoline blushed vividly. "Sometimes," she said, in a low voice.
"Then that is what you were doing?"
Gwendoline's eyes had their pleading look. "I don't think I was exactly
saying any prayers," she answered gently. "I only felt as if I wanted
help."
"Help?" repeated Lady Halcot.
"I could not feel rightly. It was not right to be unhappy because of
what you said. I wanted to be perfectly willing to have whatever God
might will for me."
"I see no particular objection to your manner of expressing yourself,"
said Lady Halcot, after a pause, as if for consideration. "But I have
a very strong dislike to infatuation on religious subjects. I hope you
will keep clear of it."
"I hope so," was the best answer Gwendoline could think of.
"Your tea has done you good, but you are pale still. I should like you
to rest on your sofa for half an hour. Then you may come down."
Gwendoline submitted unquestioningly, and at the end of the half-hour
descended to the drawing-room, white-checked and spiritless still.
She was no better next day. The weariness which had seized upon her
that afternoon continued, and Gwendoline fought with it in vain. There
were no signs of discontent about her; but the brown eyes had grown
languid and the cheeks colourless, and interest in life seemed to have
forsaken her. She was submissive and grateful, but her face rarely
lighted up with its old flashes of brilliancy. Lady Halcot tried to
recall her to painting; and the effort was a failure. If she walked in
the garden, she had to lie down afterwards, and if she attempted to
read, she dropped asleep.
"This cannot be allowed to go on," Lady Halcot said one day to Miss
Withers. "I must consult Mr. Fosbrook, if she does not mend soon."
"I do not imagine there is much amiss," that lady said mildly.
"Except—possibly—a little home-sickness,—quite natural—"
"I do not believe Miss Halcombe is home-sick," said Lady Halcot. But
she did not like the suggestion, and she did not forget it.